Little Black Book

I found your little black book today. I picked it up and examined the outer layers that were worn and tattered. The black leather looked shabby as if to say this is one of your prize possessions. The gold leaf lettering almost non-existent. The fine paper bent and even some with folded over edges.

I stared at the book, the longer I stared the more I felt like a thief in the night finding secrets that were not or should not be found. "Should I"? "Could I"? I thought maybe, yes, just a peek. I would not really read the words in that little black book, I told myself. What harm would it do? What secrets would it hold?

I wondered what beautiful things you thought of or maybe things that haunted you, would it explain? I looked over at the chair by the table that I imagined you sitting and writing down your thoughts or maybe just your dreams. The fine point pen nestled in its holder standing upright and tall, beckoning to be used, with that golden cap. Once again I pick up that little black book.

Running my finger over the golden line pages, watching the pages flip too fast to read. Still, wondering what special thoughts or what horrors could be so important that you would write them down to be forever a history "of what"?

Did you write about me, wondering if I was that important to you? Oh, what a heartbreak if not. I want it to be a declaration of newfound love you found. "Was it me"? How jealous I would be if it was not. Or maybe it was something you found to be horrible about me. Now sacred of what I would find.

I put that little book down, no, I could not open that little black book, that I found. I walked to the window and looked out to the meadow that was out past the green trees, as the sun came blooming down as to say it is morning. Another beautiful day!

My mind went back to that little black book. I felt fear at this point, realizing, that you may walk through that door at any moment. Would you see the guilt on my face, would you be angered to think that I might have read your most intimate thoughts. Or would you not care enough to not even notice?

Still, I wondered about that little black book that held my thoughts so intent on peeking through its pages. "How could I"? Can I be that insecure about your love for me? I turned my focus on that little black book again, I want so much, to know what is in it. Was it even any of my concern? Why had he not shown me this book? My thoughts were all over the place when you walked through the door.

You smiled and picked up that little black book I so wanted to read, then placed it carefully in the drawer and locked it up. Oh, How my heart dropped a beat, Sorrow drew through my body, like being swallowed up by a big wave of water, Then felt guilt, as I wanted to mourn it like a great loss.

My body started to shake and "Oh, how could I have been so deceitful as to even had the notion of reading his thoughts. He surely wasn't ready to share with me. Would he ever share his thoughts with me? Or am I forever doomed to wonder what was in that little black book?

He smiled at me again and then I was not so sure why I was glad that I had not read what was in that little black book.